


A Rose By Any Other Name

by chermit



Category: WandaVision (TV), X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fietro is Peter Maximoff, Angst, Character Study, Dimension Travel, Episode: s01e07 Breaking the Fourth Wall, Gen, Hurt Pietro Maximoff, Mind Control, Psychological Horror, Surreal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29711895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chermit/pseuds/chermit
Summary: His name was Pietro Maximoff. He grew up in Sokovia with his twin sister Wanda Maximoff. At ten years old a bombing killed their parents. The two of them volunteered for human experiments and gained superpowers. Eight years ago, he was shot and killed, but now he was alive again. He had to play the role of Wanda’s deadbeat brother, to upend her family enough for it be an issue, butnotenough that it would come off as weird when he validated her afterwards.That was, after all, what she wanted.(Or: Peter Maximoff has a crisis of identity in Westview, New Jersey)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 200





	A Rose By Any Other Name

**Author's Note:**

> So! This story pulled an Agatha and possessed my body, and wouldn't let my go until I posted it. I started working on it immediately after episode 7 came out, and now here it is. Please enjoy!

Peter was dumped onto a cold stone floor with an unpleasant thud before he’d even fully woken up. The first sensory input he got was his skull bouncing against the bricks and the wind being knocked out of him; immediately after, the nausea hit him like a semi tractor-trailer. It was a miracle he didn’t throw up on the spot.

Okay. What the hell. Where was he? What was going on? Peter knew that an inherent part of being an X-Man was putting up with the absolute weirdest, worst sort of bullshit, but come on. This was absurd. At least let him be conscious for more than _three seconds_ before throwing him into— well, wherever he was. _Seriously,_ w _here the hell was he?_

He groaned and forced open his eyes, blinking in an effort to stop the room from spinning and wobbling around him. ( _How hard had he hit his head? Did he have a concussion? Shit, he hoped not. That would suck._ ) This place was not, as he had hoped, anywhere he’d seen before, which meant that this probably _wasn’t_ a prank that Kurt was playing on him. Instead it appeared that he was in, uh… an evil dungeon. Malevolent vines crawled along the damp cobblestone walls, and carvings of demon faces leered at him from ominous stone pillars. No, actually, on second thought it was an evil _magic_ dungeon, considering that he was in the dead center of some sort of ritual circle straight out of a shitty fantasy novel, the odd symbols which spiraled the rim glowing an eerie violet and seeming to move as if alive. And of course, naturally, _obviously,_ there was a lady dressed up as a witch looming over him, with an expression of sinking disappointment on her face.

Peter stared up at her blearily, trying to will his brain to switch on, trying to _think_ his way past the throbbing pain in his skull and the instability of the world around him. _Shit._ This wasn’t going to end well for him, was it? Was witchcraft a mutant power that existed now?

The woman pursed her lips. “Not… exactly what I was hoping for, but you’ll do.”

“What—” he croaked, but before he could finish the sentence, the woman’s eyes lit up in a menacing purple, the same purple as the ritual circle.

Great. Witchcraft was a mutant power that existed now.

That was his cue to get the hell out of dodge. As the world slowed around him, he staggered to his feet. Despite his best efforts the floor swayed beneath him, and he had to focus to avoid keeling over again. Even with his superspeed, whatever that crazy witch had done with her powers was already in motion; slowly, like phantoms rising from the deep, the runes of the circle peeled themselves from the floor and began to dance in the air, swirling around him and drawing infinitesimally closer every moment.

Peter made it about two steps before his escape plan (which consisted solely of _running away_ ) fell apart. Because once his foot reached the edge of the circle, he stopped. Not for any physical reason; his brain simply _wouldn’t let him keep going._ He tried to force himself past the edge, to put one foot in front of the other, but it was as if the connection between his legs and his head was severed the moment his toe hit that luminous purple line.

Cool. Okay. That wasn’t good. But maybe he could brute force it? The ominous purple glyphs were slowly drawing in, like sharks to blood. It was time for Plan B: try to outspeed the weird mental barrier. He turned to the opposite side of the circle. bouncing on the balls of his feet and shaking his head, as if that would dispel the nausea that still washed over him in waves. _This had better work._

Peter took a deep breath, summoned up as much energy as possible, and hurled himself towards the edge of the circle at what must have been at least mach twelve.

The second he hit the edge, his feet planted themselves on the ground and he skidded to a halt. It was like when Apocalypse trapped his foot while they were fighting, a _yank_ and a sudden jolt as all of his momentum crashed into stillness, only ten times worse; his entire body jerked with the shock of it, and he was ripped from his superspeed in an instant.

Then the glyphs were upon him, crashing into his neck faster than he could react, and Peter only had a moment to cry out in shock before there was purple around him, purple within him, purple burning through him, purple consuming his mind and body and heart and very soul, oh _fuck—_

—

His name was Pietro Maximoff. He grew up in Sokovia with his twin sister Wanda Maximoff. At ten years old a bombing killed their parents. The two of them volunteered for human experiments and gained superpowers. Eight years ago he was shot and killed, but now he was alive again. He had to play the role of Wanda’s deadbeat brother, to upend her family enough for it be an issue, but _not_ enough that it would come off as weird when he validated her afterwards. That was, after all, what she wanted.

(He also had to figure out how she’d taken control of Westview, but that was a secret.)

Pietro arrived at Wanda’s home late at night. He wore a comfortable leather jacket, a pink and blue hawaiian shirt, and a Necklace of brown and white shells that scratched at his throat. It wasn’t something that he would normally pick out for himself— not by a long shot— but it was an outfit that said to Wanda: “look at me, I am so relaxed and normal, I fit right in, isn’t it totally tubular that I’m not dead anymore?” Above all, that was the effect he had to achieve.

“Long lost bro get to squeeze his stinkin’ sister to death or what?” he said when Wanda opened the door, and even though the words felt strange in his mouth, the laughter from the crowd told him that it was the right thing to say.

His sister stared at him like he was a ghost, like she didn’t understand that _he was back!_ It was a fair reaction, given his new look, but the sheer _doubt_ on her face still made something in his hind-brain panic, like he was doing something wrong, she wasn’t supposed to be upset, he had to fix it— but when he hugged her, and she leaned into the embrace like he was her other half, the feeling subsided. This was how it was meant to be.

The shape of her was unfamiliar in his arms. Pietro supposed that was what happened when a person died for eight years.

Once everyone recovered from the shock of his appearance, the night transformed into a joyous occasion. Wanda called her twins downstairs to meet him (he had nephews!), and fixed them all impromptu bowls of cereal to eat while they talked. He explained where he’d been to the kids— all lies, of course, tall tales about trips to Cairo and Poland and Washington DC, and even outer space because _why not_ — and when Wanda frowned at him, he gave her a sympathetic smile, as if to say, “they don’t need to know that I’ve been dead for the past eight years, wouldn’t you agree?” And clearly, the stories were good; the people were cheering at all the right parts and laughing at all his Fun Uncle Quips. Wanda may have disagreed, but Wanda’s _world_ was on his side.

Meeting his brand new family was great, even better than he would have imagined. To get the obvious out of the way: his nephews were fantastic. They were tiny little agents of chaos, a disaster waiting for the right moment to happen, which was just about the perfect dynamic for a set of twins to have. Billy was sweet, smart, and inquisitive, but Pietro had to admit that he favored Tommy— that kid was like a fucking hurricane, a kindred spirit, all quick footwork and mischief. He knew that uncles weren’t meant to play favorites, but he wasn’t meant to be a conventional sort of uncle anyways.

Vision was… more of an enigma. At first, Pietro hadn’t recognized him, but then he’d remembered who he was; a vibranium synthezoid superhero who Wanda had brought back to life, just like him. How silly of him, to forget something so obvious. Anyways; he didn’t think Vision hated him, but there was definitely an amount of suspicion there, and Pietro wasn’t exactly sure what he’d done to deserve it. The synthezoid was polite enough, but the way Vision looked at him set his nerves on end. But otherwise, he seemed like an interesting guy, and he was probably more pleasant to be around when he wasn’t bothered by your presence. Maybe some time they could compare powers. Pietro liked his superspeed, but he had to admit it was really cool how Vision could phase through objects and shoot lasers out of his head, and especially how he could change from big purple weirdo to normal human man in an instant, just like— it was just like —

— And Wanda! It was so _wonderful_ to see Wanda again. It had been so long, and she was so different, it was as if he had to learn her all over again. There was something terrifying about that, because they’d always been so close, but it was equally exhilarating. The new Wanda was peppy, cheerful, happier than she’d ever been— but there was an undercurrent of cold steel beneath her smile. Which made sense, given the sheer, raw, unadulterated power she had. Last he’d seen her, she never would have been able to enslave an entire town to her will with blood red telekinesis. Honestly, she reminded him a lot of—

Pietro’s Necklace tugged awkwardly at his throat. There was the taste of lavender and ash on his tongue.

He glanced down at his bowl in annoyance. Wanda needed to pick better cereal. This brand tasted really weird.

It was already past the twins’ bedtime when he’d arrived, so after spending a little while chatting with him they clamored back upstairs, where they probably wouldn’t lose enough energy to fall asleep for at least another hour. Wanda and Vision stuck around longer to discuss nothing in particular, and Vision was the first to leave, citing a need to put the twins to bed; the parting look he gave Pietro was concerned and inscrutable.

That was fine. Great, even! It was his job to upend her family a little anyways, so he might as well start early.

Wanda washed the dishes of their impromptu meal while he sat on the couch thinking about absolutely nothing. Eventually, she returned and sat next to him, giving him a tight, confused smile.

“It… really is you?” she asked. She was searching his face for something, some kernel of truth.

Pietro looked at her. For a moment, he was struck with the odd sensation that he’d never met this woman in his life before. The red hair, the green eyes, the soft curve of her nose— none of it was familiar. His heart rate spiked out of nowhere, and a cloying panic overcame him— _Who are you. Who am I. What’s going on?_

But then the moment passed, and he smiled as sunnily as he could manage. “Of course it’s me. I couldn’t just leave you on your own in paradise, could I?”

The two of them hugged again. This time, he had a better sense of how that was supposed to work, although it still felt strange. Then, Wanda grabbed him a pillow and a blanket for the couch and went upstairs to bed. He was left in the dark on the first floor all alone, with nothing but his thoughts. Not that he had many thoughts— it was like his brain was made of static, and when he closed his eyes he could swear that there were waves of purple light flowing across his vision like lines on a broken TV. It— it wasn’t uncomfortable, per se, but it was as if he was a live wire, something raw, fraying, ready to ignite, and he had no idea why. He was Pietro Maximoff. He was alive, at home, with family. He should have been relaxed right now. And he _was_ happy to see Wanda, and Vision, and his brand new nephews, but at the same time— there was something—

It took him a moment to realize that he was in the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror. His reflection stared back at him, its eyes shrouded in dull surprise. He didn’t remember walking in here.

I should go to bed, Pietro thought to himself, and then he didn’t for the next six hours. Instead he just stood there, staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, hands gripping the porcelain sink so hard his knuckles were white, his thoughts sliding off one another and failing to form, like oil and water. What was he trying to accomplish here? Whatever it was, it wasn’t working. And it wasn’t as if death-glaring at himself, at the circle of beads around his neck which stung whenever he moved wrong, was going to accomplish anything. It wouldn’t help him wrap his head around— around something— it was like he was trying to escape his own mind, trying to focus on something that he knew was real so he could— so he could what? So he could— he didn’t remember putting on that shirt or that jacket or The Necklace— he couldn’t remember— _what was happening to him—_

Pietro brushed his teeth, washed his face, and went to bed.

And when he fell asleep, he dreamt that his name was Pietro Maximoff; that he grew up in Sokovia with his twin sister Wanda Maximoff; that, at ten years old, a bombing killed their parents; that the two of them volunteered for human experiments and gained superpowers. He dreamt that eight years ago he was shot and killed, but now he was alive again, and now he had to play the role of Wanda’s deadbeat brother, to upend her family enough for it be an issue, but _not_ enough that it would come off as weird when he validated her afterwards.

Images flashed before his mind, memories that were _wrong,_ somehow, all of them drenched in a sickly purple. Pietro huddled close to his sister, staring in horror at an unmoving live shell. Pietro screaming amidst a throng of angry protesters. Pietro slamming into the walls of his too-small test chamber at the speed of sound. Pietro being shot into swiss cheese by an evil robot. Pietro bleeding out in a city in the sky, Pietro being gathered up in an embrace of scarlet magic. Pietro in a hundred moments at a hundred times, none of them familiar, all of them lit up in glowing angry violet—

An indeterminate amount of time later, Pietro awoke to whispers.

Knowledge slotted into his brain like it had always been there. It was the Nineties now, so everything looked different, but this was normal for Westview, no need for alarm. Today was Halloween. The twins were whispering about him, and Pietro had to get up and mess around with them _right_ now, chop chop.

 _Fair enough,_ he thought to himself. _I’d do that even if it_ wasn’t _my job._

And for a little while, nothing hurt. Not that he was expecting it to or anything. Something about playfully ribbing the boys and causing mischief came naturally to him. Making fun of Wanda, chasing around the twins like a vampire, playing video games and chugging soda— it was all easy, simple, fun. Normal. It felt like _him._ Which, of course, it was; he was Pietro Maximoff, and doing that shit was his job.

And when the kids called him “Uncle P,” it didn’t make his stomach twist. Not like it did when he was called Pietro.

Of course, things got a little less care-free when Billy stopped what he was doing to talk to someone who wasn’t there. Okay, that was a little weirder than usual. Pietro squinted at the kid as he monologued about the tension between his parents—

The Necklace tugged at his throat.

Oh shit. That was his cue, wasn’t it?

Pietro blinked purple out of his eyes and got to work causing conflict between Wanda and Vision. The kids needed a father figure for the day? Good thing Pietro Maximoff was there to slot himself into the perfect position to cause problems on purpose. And if he got some alone time with Wanda, he could ask her how she’d taken control of Westview, which he hadn’t had an opportunity to do yet. So overall, Vision's inability to stay on script was really working in his favor. Wow, he was super good at this job!

—

Wanda was suspicious of him, and he wasn’t sure why.

She kept asking him _questions._ Questions he couldn’t answer. Like, _do you share this one memory with me?_ And, _where did you come from?_ And, w _hat happened to your accent? And, “Why_ do _you… look different?”_

Pietro didn’t have answers. And if anyone should have had them, it was her, wasn’t it? She was the one who’d brought him back after he'd been shot to death. (Despite the fact that he could run faster than bullets, _seriously, how had that happened?)_ He told her what he could, expressed support for her decisions— but he couldn’t explain them for her. Besides, for some reason his memory was foggy. Most of the details were missing, lost somewhere between life and death and rebirth. And it felt— if he thought about it too hard, it didn’t make sense. Did Eastern Europe have Twinkies and Ding-Dongs, arcade cabinets and ping-pong tables in a basement covered in posters? Did their parents’ house have a cute black mailbox with the word MAXIMOFF written on it and a grassy green lawn? Was their orphanage a big-ass mansion run by a bald guy in a wheelchair who could read minds—

Sure, he couldn’t remember their life very well, and sure his face was different, and sure he had a secret mission to figure out how she’d created the Shangri-la they were in right now, but he was at a loss as to how any of that translated to a lack of trust. He was Pietro Maximoff. He was here to play the role of Wanda’s deadbeat brother, to upend her family enough for it be an issue, but _not_ enough that it would come off as weird when he validated her afterwards. That was what she wanted, wasn’t it? He was certain he was doing everything right.

He told her as much. It didn’t seem to reassure her.

At the very least, her mistrust wasn’t getting in the way of his obligations. He was still able to take the kids along on a candy-stealing, pumpkin-smashing, silly string-spraying escapade of epic proportions, which was really all he needed. As long as he could do what he was supposed to, then everything would be fine.

He moved on autopilot through the evening; he returned the candy to everyone they stole it from (barf), watched the kids have fun trick or treating, walked past a movie theater showing films he’d never heard of before in his life, gave Tommy a sick high-five when he manifested superspeed— “chip off the old Maximoff block!” — and then he was alone with Wanda. He had her all to himself.

At last— _at last!_ — after so long waiting, Pietro had an opportunity to validate her, _and_ to ask her how she’d taken control of Westview.

“I think Mom and Dad would have loved it,” he told her after they sat next to each other on a haybale, even though he figured that their mom would have hated being around so many children, and their dad— well, their dad probably would have just been unpleasantly reminded of his dead wife and daughter, neither of which were his son, because Pietro hadn’t told him— _oh shit, oh sweet Jesus what if he was trapped like this forever and he never told Erik—_

“Where were you hiding all these kids up ‘till now?” he asked with a knowing smile on his face, even as The Necklace pulled uncomfortably at his windpipe. And he didn’t let her interrupt him as told her that he supported her, that Westview was totally cool, that “you’ve handled the ethical considerations of this scenario as best you could.” And she listened, and accepted his compliments! She seemed surprised that anyone would agree with her so openly— which meant that she really needed him to be there for her. It really _was_ what she wanted, wasn’t it!

And then, the big money: “How’d you even do all this?”

She stared at him as if he’d just asked her to kill a dog— shit. Validate. Right.

“Hey. I’m not some stranger,” he said, even though the words made something twist in his stomach, “and I’m not your husband. You can talk to me.”

That did the trick. Wanda sighed and looked off, lost in contemplation. “I don’t know… how I did it,” she said softly.

He raised his eyebrows. Huh. Seriously? Damn.

“I… I only remember feeling… completely alone. Empty, I just… _endless_ nothingness.”

Wanda turned away from him to compose herself. But then, when she went to face him again, she gasped and covered her mouth.

He frowned. That was an... odd reaction. What, was there something wrong with his face?

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine!”

Pietro was about 97% sure that Wanda was lying through her teeth. No one went from such deep grief as she had described to being completely fine overnight; no one reacted like that to another person’s face while being fine. There was something wrong with her. ( _Funny; usually, there was only something wrong with Pietro._ ) But there wasn’t supposed to be something wrong with her. He had to fix it.

Before he could do anything to console her, comfort her, validate her, the twins ran over to them. Vision was in trouble, they said. He was dying.

This was exactly what Pietro didn’t need right now. Wanda was panicking even more, asking Billy to explain what was going on, and Billy was freaking out, and Pietro— they weren’t supposed to be upset, he had to fix it— he had to fix it—

The Necklace tightened around his throat. He could barely breathe.

Upend her family enough for it to be an issue, but not enough that it would come off as weird when he validated her afterwards—

He _had_ to fix this—

“Hey, don’t sweat it Sis. It’s not like your dead husband can die twice,” he quipped.

Wanda froze, and for a moment he thought he’d done okay. But then she turned to him, eyes glowing, _burning_ red, face contorted in anger and hurt and betrayal— a burst of red light flew from her hand, hit him square in the chest, and sent him flying backwards into a group of plastic Halloween gravestones. And then, as soon as he could wrap his mind around _what had just happened,_ she and the twins were gone.

—

Pietro wasn’t sure how long he laid there, unmoving and unable to comprehend his situation. Townsfolk went about their evenings around him, but didn’t acknowledge his presence despite the fact that he was smack dab in the middle of the town square. He was paralyzed with indecision; he wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be with Wanda. What was he doing? He had to go to her. He couldn’t go to her.

He felt like his skull was splitting in two. He wanted to get up, to run and run and _run_ until he’d burnt off the existential dread that was festering in his chest, to get away and _out—_

The Necklace clenched around his throat. No, that was wrong. Pietro wasn’t supposed to leave. He wanted to— he _had_ to—

But he couldn’t—

But he had to—

His name was Pietro Maximoff. He grew up in Sokovia with his twin sister Wanda Maximoff. At ten years old a bombing killed their parents. The two of them volunteered for human experiments and gained superpowers. Eight years ago he was shot and killed, but now he was alive again. He had to play the role of Wanda’s deadbeat brother, to upend her family enough for it be an issue, but _not_ enough that it would come off as weird when he validated her afterwards. That was, after all, what she wanted.

But clearly, it _wasn’t_ what she’d wanted. Pietro had done everything he was supposed to and she’d responded by metaphorically throwing him _back into the grave._ If that wasn’t a rejection he didn’t know what was. He couldn’t go back to her now, not after she’d so dramatically and completely cut him out of her life, like he was a cancer, a parasite, because somehow he’d fucked up at his one and only job—

But if he couldn’t do what he was meant to do, what the hell was he even _doing here—_

A blind panic seized Pietro out of nowhere, a crushing sense of _wrong bad no stop no_ that he was too stunned to suppress. His vision became blurry with tears and his breathing was quick and shallow. He didn’t understand what was going on, what he was supposed to do, when he couldn’t upend-her-family-but-also-validate-her because that was his _purpose,_ that was his anchor, and it was gone now and he was left adrift with the static in the brain and the purple mist at the corners of his vision— why wasn’t he with Wanda? Why aren't you doing your job?

He felt like he was choking— or maybe he was, because The Necklace had him in a vice grip, as if he was doing something wrong, as if it was _angry_ at him for not being with Wanda right now, because that was where he was supposed to be. It was where he was supposed to be. But he couldn’t be there, not after what had happened! She didn’t want him. She wouldn’t accept him. So what now? His brain was melting out of his ears. He couldn’t focus. He couldn’t _breathe_. What the fuck was going on? Where was he? How had he even _gotten_ there? Where was— where were— who—

“Oh, great,” A voice rang out, clear through the air as a crystal bell. Deja vu swept over him. Even though Pietro had never heard it before (at least, he didn’t _think_ he had), he knew deep down in his very soul who it belonged to. Agatha Harkness.

Sure enough, there she was. Standing over him with a disinterested frown on her face, dressed up in full witch regalia. The deja vu intensified. _How did he know who this was? Where had he seen her before—_

“This is what happens when you settle for the first Quicksilver you find, isn’t it?” She said. She sounded disappointed. Disappointed in him? That would make sense, considering that he couldn’t— but he had to—

“She doesn’t want me.” He was just barely able to wheeze out around the Necklace’s chokehold. “She doesn’t— oh God, I have to— I have to go—”

“Relax,” Agatha said with a wave of her hand, and he _did._ The panic that had gripped Pietro released its fist, and The Necklace around his throat went loose without a moment’s hesitation. It was a paradigm shift of epic proportions; with that one word, all of his obligations disappeared into smoke as if they’d never been. As if the compulsion in his blood was never there. As if he’d never had to play the role of Wanda’s deadbeat brother, to upend her family enough for it be an issue, but _not_ enough that it would come off as weird when he validated her afterwards.

 _What the actual fuck?_ Pietro did not think.

He stood up slowly, expecting The Necklace to lock him in a vice at any moment simply for moving wrong, but nothing happened. As Agatha mused to herself, he poked at his throat. The Necklace was as loose as ever, dangling against his collarbone, brown beads and grey shells that should have had no capacity to strangle a person the way they could. And as far as he could tell, he didn’t have any bruising— his throat wasn’t more tender than usual…

What was happening to him? For a day, he’d had a purpose, a reason for existence— and now that was gone with a wave of the wrist. He was unmoored… but at the same time, more free than he’d felt for as long as he could remember. Though admittedly, that wasn’t very long.

 _(This isn’t right,_ a part of him whispered. _Get out of here. Run, before she tells you not to.)_

_What do you mean, before she tells you—_

“Pietro, honey,” Agatha said out of the blue, and he snapped to attention, waiting for her next words. “Mind giving me a lift?” She fluttered her eyelashes as a sardonic grin split her face. His thoughts washed from his mind like footsteps on the beach.

“Right on,” he replied, smirking.

Of course he didn’t mind. All she had to do was say the word, and he would do whatever she needed.

He grabbed her hand, and before she could blink they were back at her house. He didn’t even need to ask her where it was; he just knew, like he knew the back of his hand. As if it was how things were meant to be. Because this _was_ how things were meant to be. Pietro had the sense that it had always been that way, even when he’d been playing the role of Wanda’s deadbeat brother.

_(This isn’t normal. This isn’t right. You need to leave. You need to run. Why are you just standing there, doing what she tells you? HURRY—)_

Somehow, Pietro knew that if he said _no_ to Agatha, The Necklace would choke him out on the spot.

—

The inside of Agatha’s home had an antique, red carpet and dark wood vibe that reminded Pietro of absolutely nothing. She had him sit on the dusty purple couch, and with a friendly smile said that she was going to make dinner for the two of them, did he have any preferences?

“Twinkies,” he quipped. Agatha shook her head and chuckled, and went to the kitchen to magic them spaghetti instead.

While Agatha was occupied, Pietro’s feet took him to the bathroom.

Pietro didn’t know why. It was an unconscious impulse, even more unconscious than the ones that had been motivating him for— well, for as long as he could clearly remember at this point. He stood there in front of the oval, wire-frame mirror and told himself that he should probably go and sit back down on the couch. There wasn’t any reason for him to just stand there, looking at himself. Pietro wasn’t supposed to do that.

But he couldn’t look away. Or maybe he didn’t want to. He scrutinized his reflection, the impromptu Halloween costume (what was he even dressed up as?), the hair made up like the horns of a demon, The Necklace wrapped possessively around his throat. This was the face that had made Wanda distrust him. If he’d just looked different— if he’d just done better—

For a fleeting moment, he hated that face. It wasn’t the face he was supposed to have. But— how could he hate it when it was unequivocally _his,_ in a way that his name just wasn’t?

Pietro frowned. What was he thinking? His name was Pietro Maximoff. And that was how it was meant to be.

“My name is Pietro Maximoff,” he said aloud, and the words felt like lead in his mouth. They were wrong. _Everything_ was wrong. He didn’t look like Pietro Maximoff, and he didn’t feel like Pietro Maximoff. Hearing the name sent a shiver down his spine, sent his gut flip-flopping over itself, made him want to curl up into a ball and never move again. This wasn’t Pietro Maximoff’s face, his body, his soul. But if he wasn’t Pietro Maximoff, who was he?

A malevolent violet crept at the edges of his vision. “Pietro,” his blood pounded in his ears. “Pietro, Pietro, Pietro, Pietro—”

His name was Pietro Maximoff. He grew up in Sokovia with—

His hands gripped the edges of the sink. No, that wasn’t right either. It couldn’t be. He couldn’t even identify Sokovia on a map if he was asked to. He’d never even heard of it before! He— he didn’t know who Wanda was, who Agatha was, who _he_ was—

The Necklace squeezed his neck.

He felt like he’d just fucking _snorted_ charcoal and lavender, the smell was so intense. What are you doing? You aren’t supposed to think that. Stop it, now.

_Who am I?_

His name was—

_WHO AM I._

Pietro oozing from his pores. Pietro bleeding from his ears. Pietro in his hair, in his eyes, in his nose, between his teeth. Pietro under his nails like dirt, Pietro filling his mouth like sticky purple blood, Pietro pumping through his veins and surging through his body and settled in his gut like a tapeworm, draining him of everything he was.

 _Where’s Dad’s helmet when you need it?_ He thought hysterically, although he had no clue what that was supposed to mean.

The Necklace had him in a vice grip now, but— it was funny. In the mirror, it appeared just as loose as always. From the outside, you would never be able to tell that it was _strangling_ him, telling him to stop, behave, your name is Pietro Maximoff—

It hurt. He wanted it off. He wanted—

He couldn’t breathe. No, he didn’t want it off. Why would he think that? He didn’t care. He—

_I WANT IT OFF._

_WHO AM I._

He shut his eyes tight, as if that would block out the screaming chaos in his head, and tried to clear his mind, to recall the mental shielding techniques that— that— that he just _knew,_ somehow, from somewhere unfathomable. He took as deep a breath as he could manage, and put all his willpower into just— just touching it, at the very least, grazing his fingers against it. But it was as if his body itself wouldn’t let him. His fingers gripped the sink even tighter. He could barely force air into his lungs.

But, he _knew_ that he could touch his neck. Back in the town square, he’d done just that. Why couldn’t he do it now?

 _Clear your mind and act without intent,_ something— a memory? — whispered in his mind. _If you can’t run through it, then run around it._

He forced his breathing to slow. _I am Pietro Maximoff,_ he repeated in his mind like a mantra, like an anchor, like a shield, even though he didn’t believe it, as if saying it over and over would convince his subconscious that it was true. Slowly, gradually, The Necklace loosened its grip around his neck.

Okay. He could do this. His eyes fell closed, and he imagined his hand moving to scratch at his throat.

It wasn’t itchy there, but he pretended that it was. _I am Pietro Maximoff,_ he thought, _and I am going to scratch my neck._ And then he raised his arm to his collarbone without any resistance whatsoever.

 _I am scratching my neck,_ he thought— no, he _projected_ — and slowly, carefully, he threaded his fingers below the loose string of beads, moved his hand up his neck inch by inch, until he was _really_ getting at the itch he definitely had there, until he had enough leverage to actually cause some damage. _Now I am going to raise my hands above my head and stretch, and I am going to do it quickly, because doing things quickly is normal for me;_ and he took a deep breath, summoned as much willpower as he could muster—

“You’re not supposed to do that,” Agatha said from the bathroom doorway. And then there was purple in his eyes, purple on his tongue and in his ears and glossing over the wrinkles in his mind—

His name was Pietro Maximoff. He grew up in Sokovia with his—

_No—_

YES.

— twin sister Wanda Maximoff. At ten years old a bombing killed their parents. The two of them volunteered for human experiments and—

 _NO!_ No, this was wrong, this was all wrong, this wasn’t his home, he was— his name— his name was Pet—

HIS NAME WAS PIETRO MAXIMOFF. He grew up in Sokovia with his twin sister Wanda Maximoff. At ten years old a bombing killed their parents. The two of them volunteered for human experiments and gained superpowers. Eight years ago he —

_Please, someone, help—_

— was shot and killed, but now he was alive again. He had to—

_Oh, God—_

— He had to DO WHAT AGATHA TOLD HIM TO.

That was, after all, what she wanted.

Pietro staggered backwards and hit the wall with a thud. He groaned and keened over, trying to get his bearings around the throbbing pain in his skull. In an instant, Agatha was by his side; she ran a hand across his shoulders and took his arm, holding him steady. She wordlessly guided Pietro to the living room, where he collapsed into the soft, all-consuming sofa. Pietro was exhausted, all of a sudden, though for the life of him he couldn’t say why. All of the energy had been drained from his body at once, without warning or reason.

“Why don’t you take a nap, hon. You look tired,” Agatha said. There was a sympathetic smile on her face.

A nap. That sounded nice.

Pietro closed his eyes, and was out before he could wonder about the heady taste of lavender on his tongue.

—

His name was Pietro Maximoff. He grew up in Sokovia with his twin sister Wanda Maximoff. At ten years old a bombing killed their parents. The two of them volunteered for human experiments and gained superpowers. Eight years ago he was shot and killed, but now he was alive again. He had to— right now, all he had to do was listen to Agatha. Fairly straight forward, all things considered. He could work with that.

When Pietro woke up, everything in the house looked completely different. _WRONG,_ his brain shouted at him, _this is all wrong, what kind of decor even is this? It’s not cluttered enough, not colorful enough, and when the hell did TVs get that flat—_

It’s the Twenty-tens now. Don’t worry about it.

 _WHAT DO YOU_ MEAN _DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT—_

Agatha handed Pietro a bagel, and he ate it without question. It tasted like ash.

“I’m having Wanda and her family over later today, and we’re going to need some privacy,” Agatha said once Pietro had finished shoving the bagel into his throat. “Be a dear and make sure no uninvited guests pop over to say _Hi,_ will you?”

“Sure.” That seemed easy enough. Besides, it wasn’t as if Pietro could say no to Agatha. “Do you just want me to sit in the bushes with a pair of binoculars, or…?”

“Why don’t you keep watch from the attic, and if anyone looks too nosy, you can just…” she sneered a little, and made a dismissive gesture with her hands. “Deal with them.”

“Can do.” Pietro stood up, gave a jaunty salute, and sped up to the attic to do the job that Agatha had given him. Pietro was so quick that he didn’t even stop to ask why his sister was visiting Agatha.

His name was Pietro Maximoff. He grew up in Sokovia with his twin sister Wanda Maximoff. At ten years old a bombing killed their parents. The two of them volunteered for human experiments and gained superpowers. Eight years ago he was shot and killed, but now he was alive again. He had to keep away anyone who wasn’t supposed to be at Agatha’s house. That was, after all, what she wanted.

Keeping away anyone who wasn’t supposed to be at Agatha’s house, it turned out, was incredibly boring. No one was doing anything but walking around like normal. But—there was something about the neighborhood— something about the cars, and the clothes, and the houses— Pietro wasn’t sure what it was, but it was uncanny. It was wrong. The type of wrong that got under your skin and wouldn’t go away no matter how hard you scrubbed.

The scent of lavender hit Pietro, and had to take a moment to rub purple out of his eyes. Everything was fine. What had Pietro been thinking again?

Nothing. Pietro wasn’t thinking anything. Pietro was doing his job.

Right.

Luckily for Pietro’s sanity, things didn’t stay boring for long. Because soon, Agatha Harkness was on the prowl.

Pietro was quiet as Agatha lured Billy and Tommy into her basement, even though he _knew,_ down to the marrow in his bones, that she was going to hurt them. He didn’t want them to be hurt, but it wasn’t his job to protect them. He had to keep away anyone who wasn’t supposed to be at Agatha’s house.

Pietro was quiet as he watched Wanda (He grew up in Sokovia with his twin sister Wanda Maximoff) throw a woman into the sky and then back into the ground again with a wave of her hand. Pietro had no clue what the two of them were saying to one another, and he wished that he could figure out what was going on, because this was the most exciting thing to happen to him all day. He tried not to be too disappointed when Agatha cut off the confrontation as soon as it had started.

Pietro was quiet as Agatha lured Wanda into the same basement, even though he knew, down to the marrow in his bones, that she was going to hurt her. _Fuck._ He didn’t want this. There were tears welling in his eyes— but for what? It wasn’t his job to protect her. _(And he didn’t know who she was— but for some reason, he still wanted her to be okay.)_ He had to keep away anyone who wasn’t supposed to be at Agatha’s house.

 _If you were really her brother, it would be your job to protect her no matter what,_ Pietro didn’t think.

Pietro wiped his eyes and looked out the window— there! The woman Wanda had just been fighting with was poking around the house. Agatha had not invited her to the house. She wasn’t supposed to be there. _She wasn’t supposed to be there._

His name was Pietro Maximoff. He grew up in Sokovia with his twin sister Wanda Maximoff. At ten years old a bombing killed their parents. The two of them volunteered for human experiments and gained superpowers. Eight years ago he was shot and killed, but now he was alive again. He had to keep away anyone who wasn’t supposed to be at Agatha’s house.

Bingo.

Vibrating with anticipation, Pietro rushed down the stairs at top speed. He planted himself next to the woman, who had just opened up the outside trapdoor to the basement. That wouldn’t do.

“Snooper’s gonna snoop,” Pietro said in her ear.

She whirled around in shock at the words. In an instant, confusion washed across her face— but so did recognition. “Pietro?” she gasped.

Why was it that something twisted and turned in his gut whenever Pietro heard that name? It was, after all, his name. Pietro Maximoff. That was his name. Pietro Maximoff. Pietro Maximoff. Pietro. Pietro. Pietro, Pietro—

The Necklace was a lead weight pressing down on Pietro’s collarbone. The taste of lavender and ash overwhelmed him.

“That’s me,” Pietro said. “And snoopers can’t be here.”

She narrowed her eyes at Pietro. “Where did you even come from?”

“Seriously, you gotta go, dude. Either you can leave on your own, or I can run you to the other side of town. You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Says who?”

“Says Agatha.”

“Who’s—” She did a double take, from the house, to Pietro, to the house, to Pietro again. “You mean Ag _nes?”_

“Agatha.” Pietro gestured to the house with his head. “She’s the witch who lives here.”

The Necklace began to tighten around Pietro’s throat, purple dancing in Pietro’s peripheral vision. This woman wasn’t supposed to be here. Pietro had to get rid of her. Pietro’s entire body itched with the need to do as he was told.

_Hey man, you didn’t say I couldn’t make small talk beforehand._

The Necklace didn’t like that thought. It tightened even further, pulling uncomfortably at his windpipe. Pietro swallowed.

“Sorry, the _witch?”_

This has gone on long enough. Do your job.

Pietro reached out to take her arm and haul her off the property, but she grabbed his wrist and twisted his hand up somehow— _somehow_ — faster than Pietro could react. Her palm vibrated with energy, a low hum that set Pietro on edge. She looked deep into Pietro’s eyes as if trying to divine the secrets of the universe from him.

“Who are you, really?” She asked, eyes narrowed.

_I DON’T KNOW._

“My name is Pietro Maximoff,” Pietro said, the words flowing out of him without conscious thought, a rushing, desperate torrent. “I grew up in Sokovia with my twin sister Wanda Maximoff. At ten years old a bombing killed our parents. The two of us volunteered for human experiments and gained superpowers. Eight years ago I was shot and killed, but now I’m alive again. I— I _have_ to keep away anyone who isn’t supposed to be at Agatha’s house. I have to, I—”

 _You seem nice,_ Pietro thought to himself. _I don’t want to fight you, but you need to go._

_Please don’t go—_

Pietro yanked his arm from her grip. “You really have to go,” Pietro pleaded. “Please don’t make me hurt you.”

Instead of taking that cue to leave like she was supposed to, the woman took a step back and looked Pietro up and down like he was a puzzle to be solved. Then, she took in a deep breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them, they glowed a terrible, familiar, iridescent violet _(what kind of mutation was_ that _supposed to be?),_ and then, without hesitation, her gaze locked on The Necklace as if it pulled there by gravity.

 _Oh thank fucking God,_ Pietro didn’t think.

She took a step forward, brows furrowed in curiosity and focus, then another, reached out towards Pietro’s throat–

KILL HER, something commanded, with enough force and surprise that Pietro had no choice but to obey. Pietro lurched into motion; within milliseconds, Pietro's hands were at her throat, pressing down and _squeezing_ with as much force as a circle of brown beads and white shells—

The woman fizzled out of existence under Pietro’s palms.

Pietro stared at his hands, uncomprehending. "Kill her kill her kill her kill her KILL HER," Pietro’s blood pounded, but Pietro _couldn’t_ because she wasn’t _there—_

Pietro turned around wildly. She wasn’t anywhere to be found. Where had she gone? Purple sparks danced across Pietro’s eyes. Oh God. Pietro had to kill her. Pietro had to kill her. Where was she. Pietro had to kill her. Pietro had to—

There was a humming noise in the air, a crackling, like electricity. Pietro couldn’t identify its source.

Kill her kill her kill her kill her kill her kill her kill her kill her kill her—

Pietro couldn’t _breathe._

There was a crack of thunder directly behind Pietro, and Pietro whirled around just in time to see her forming as if from light half a foot from Pietro’s face, eyes burning turquoise blue—

She reached out a glowing hand, grabbed The Necklace, and ripped it from Pietro’s neck.

The architecture of Pietro’s mind crashed in on itself. Nonsensical memories and violet compulsions fizzled and slid out of view, like a crumbling edifice, like wallpaper peeling and curling into dust, like a man drowning for years and years until finally, his head broke water and he could breathe at last; a purple veil he hadn’t noticed lifted from his eyes, a blinding agony that had faded like white noise into the background abruptly cut out, confusion and fear disintegrating into ash, ash and lavender disintegrating into atoms, until all that was left was—

Peter gasped and jerked backwards, crashing to the lawn in a jumble of motion, heart pounding in his chest.

_Fuck._

Okay. Hi. Peter was back. _Peter_ Maximoff, Quicksilver, X-Man and Mutant and son of prolific terrorist Erik Lehnsherr. He was from fucking Washington DC, and both of his sisters were younger than him. He was in some weird futuristic suburban hellscape, and he’d spent the last day and a half being mind controlled by an evil witch, and his name _most assuredly was not Pietro Maximoff._

Fuck. _Fuck!_ That had hurt _so much._ It was like his thoughts were being pressed through a cheese cloth, every action puppeteered by spindly purple strings that would wrap around his throat and strangle him if he stepped out of line— Peter was going to be traumatized forever from this, wasn’t he? If Charles ever tried to talk to him telepathically again he was actually gonna flip his shit. Maybe it was time for him to tell Erik that Peter was his son, if only so that he could ask to borrow his helmet.

The mutant woman who’d rescued him was looking down at him, concern written across her face. “Hey. Are you okay?”

“Uh, nope,” he said. “Well, I’m me again, but…”

“I’ve been there.” She grimaced sympathetically. “It’s not fun.”

Understatement of the century. “It’s really not.”

The woman held out the necklace, and Peter could swear that the brown beads glinted an eerie purple in the sunlight. It set his nerves on end. “Who made this? Wanda?”

“No. It was Agatha. Agatha Harkness. She lives here, has some kind of magic power— that _thing_ , it made me do whatever she wanted, made me think that I was—”

“Pietro Maximoff.”

Peter nodded weakly. “Get it the hell away from me,” he rasped.

The woman focused intently. Her eyes glowed a brilliant turquoise as her hand shimmered with blue light, and she clenched her fist around the necklace. It shattered in a puff of purple smoke.

“Rad,” he said, even though nothing about this situation was rad at all. “What kind of mutant are you?”

The woman gave him a quizzical look, but held out a hand to help him up; he took it, and she pulled him to his feet. “I’m Monica. Monica Rambeau,” she said. “Not sure what this, uh…” she wiggled her fingers a little, and they were enveloped in glowing blue waves, “...stuff is about, but so far I’m not complaining.” A thought occurred to her, and she turned to the trapdoor she’d opened. “You wouldn’t happen to know where this goes, would you…?”

“Agatha’s evil magic basement, probably. Uh, I think Agatha took Wanda and her kids down there for villainous purposes. If you were wondering.”

Monica's face fell at the news. “I’ve got to stop her,” she said, then she gave Peter a look of concern. “You should find somewhere safe. I’m sorry you were dragged into this.”

“No, I’m staying,” he said. “I’m fast. I can help. And I want to kick that witch’s ass.”

It was nice _(really, really nice)_ not to be under mind control anymore, but that didn’t mean everything was back to normal. He still didn’t know where this was, how he’d gotten here, or who any of these people were. And if he remembered correctly— was it seriously supposed to be the twenty-tens right now? Was he in the future? Also, his outfit was atrocious. This was so fucked up.

The point: there was something weird here. And Peter was an X-man. He’d broken into the Pentagon and had fought a 2000-year-old smurf named Apocalypse; he could handle weird. He was going to find out exactly what was happening here, and he was going to put a stop to it. No one would suffer at Agatha’s hands again.

Monica nodded, picking up on the conviction in his voice. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Peter,” he said, and a wave of relief washed over him at how _right_ the answer felt. He didn’t have a clue what this place was or what the future had in store— but at least he had _himself._ “My name is Peter.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, consider leaving a comment :)


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